The Issues of Trust and Loyalty
by Sherlockedmyheart
Summary: John decides to meet up with one of his oldest friends, and the man who saved his life, and gets so drunk he has no memory of the night before. Except when John wakes up the morning after, Lestrade is waiting for him and about to arrest him.
1. Chapter 1

_**From: Sam Murray**_

_**To: John Watson**_

_**Hullo Johnny,**_

_**Just wondering how you're doing? How's Harry? I saw her down town the other day, didn't have a chance to say hello but let me just say…phoah…really, if only she wasn't a lesbian…Ah well.**_

_**I would ask what you're up to but you're blog is pretty much informing the world about you and that Sherlock Holmes bloke. He seems…great. I didn't know you were…you know…inclined that way.**_

_**Why'd you never mentioned it? Mind you, I always did think you were giving me the eye.**_

_**Denial…it's a terrible thing, John.**_

_**I'm just messing with you but if you are…you know…batting for the other team, then let me just say that it's all fine, alright? I'm happy for you mate, genuinely. We all need someone in our life to drive us mad. I got Cathy (who, by the way, is going to be Mrs. Murray in a short space of time) and you got Sherlock Holmes.**_

_**Anyway, I've just finished my tour and was wondering if you'd like to meet up? **_

_**I completely understand if it's too soon so I won't mind if you decline (you soppy git) but if you do then it would be great to see you again (not so much of a soppy git).**_

_**All the best mate,**_

_**Sam**_

'_Denial', _John thought. _'You can talk you gobby bastard.' _But there was still a telltale grin on his face. He crossed his arms and stared at the laptop screen, trying to think of what to reply.

He'd just gotten up twenty minutes before and had just made himself a cuppa before switching on his laptop when he saw the email. He hadn't even gotten dressed yet, he was still in his blue dressing gown…with boxers.

"John? I said good morning."

John looked up startled and he saw the form of his flatmate standing in the doorway. Sherlock looked fairly well rested for a man who never slept and still in his pyjamas, but John could hardly blame him, he'd had insomnia for eight days straight. John had to all but drug him to get him to sleep…well, John did drug him.

Still, Sherlock held no visible grudges, in fact, in looked quite perplexed at the fact that John had only just noticed him.

"Sorry, morning."

"What are you reading?" Sherlock asked, actually _asked_.

"I…uh…I got an email from an old mate of mine. He's just come back from tour and asking if I'd meet up with him."

"Oh…will you go?"

"I dunno."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa. "Why not? Your therapist said it would be proactive if you met up with a few of your former army friends –"

"He was the one who saved my life." John interrupted.

He didn't dare look at Sherlock; instead he stared at his fingers on the keyboard as if willing them to write for him. Truth be told, he genuinely _wanted_ to see Sam but it wasn't sure if he _could_.

The last time John had seen Sam Murray was two and a half years ago in the scorching Afghan desert, when Sam had been pressing down on the fucking gaping hole in John's shoulder. Not the greatest memories to hold of one of your closest mates.

"Ah." Sherlock whispered. "I can see why that would be painful for you." Sherlock winced slightly at his poor choice of words.

John simply hummed in agreement. The two sat in companionable silence for a long time. John stared at the keyboard and Sherlock stared at John, noting how his shoulder (left –injured) twitched slightly and how he tapped his foot against the table leg as he tried to decide.

Sherlock knew John had decided when he relaxed back into his chair and crossed his arms, still staring at the screen.

"Are you going to accept?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

John took a deep breath and rubbed the stumble on his jaw. "Oh fuck it," He sighed. "After all, the bastard did save my life."

John leant forward and began to type. What he didn't see was the smallest of smiles on Sherlock's face as the Consulting Detective threw himself onto the sofa and laid there with a newspaper inches away from his face.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"You know when you're finished, make me a cup of tea, there's a good man."

Sherlock noted the slight pause in typing as his words sank in and grinned behind the newspaper when John huffed in annoyance.

_**From: John Watson**_

_**To: **__**Sam Murray**_

_**Hello Sam,**_

_**I'd love to meet up. **_

_**It's good to hear from you again, really.**_

_**You know the Horse and Hound down Henley Road, how about there?**_

_**I'm not bad thanks, well, better than you'll be when I tell Harry that. I'd tell you what's been going on with Harry but I have a certain number of characters available.**_

_**Even if I was gay (which I'm not) I wouldn't be eyeing an ugly bastard like you up, I have standards, you know. **_

_**Oh yeah, and congratulations mate, I'm genuinely pleased. You took fucking long enough, I thought you'd never propose.**_

_**You can choose the time and day.**_

_**John**_

John pressed 'send' before the monotonous voice in his head (which, to be fair, was had all but disappeared since he did have rather a penchant for endangering his life) talked him out of it.

He stretched slowly and groaned when practically everything he moved clicked.

"John?" Sherlock asked, head still buried in the newspaper. "I want tea."

John rolled his eyes. "And why can't you make it?"

He knew there was no real point arguing, both men knew it was only really for the sake of his pride.

"Busy."

"Doing what? Lying on your back reading," John leaned over and turned the front page towards him. "_The Sun_. Sherlock, why the hell are you reading _The Sun_ of all things?"

"Data." Sherlock said evenly.

John snorted. "Christ, I bet you'll be reading _Nuts _next because of its 'articles'"

At that point Sherlock did look up from the newspaper. "John, I shall have you know that last month they printed a rather interesting article of swords, one that helped me solve the case I was working on at the time."

At that point John burst out laughing. "Oh for God's sake Sherlock, I know Irene – sorry, _she _called you 'The Virgin' but you don't have to make up some bollocks about a sword article just so you can have a wank."

Sherlock scowled, his lips were dressed together in a thin, straight line, his eyebrows were practically knitted together and his eyes – good God, if looks could kill, John would've been smouldering ash on the carpet.

Just as Sherlock was about to open his mouth to reply, John's computer dinged.

_**From: **__**Sam Murray**_

_**To: John Watson**_

_**That's great.**_

_**You doing anything tonight? Say about seven-ish?**_

"Sherlock? Are you – and by that I mean you plus you dragging me, anywhere tonight?"

"No." Sherlock huffed.

The World's Only Consulting Detective was now having a sulk on the sofa with his arms folded across his chest. John simply shook it off, it was hardly unusual, the man had more mood swings than a toddler in a sugar rush.

"Right, well Sam wants to meet me tonight and I'm going to say yes so please don't ring me unless it's a real emergency – and I mean genuine, life-or-death-situation kind of emergency, alright?"

Sherlock huffed again, a little louder this time, which meant 'fine'.

John replied quickly before Sherlock complained loudly that his tea hadn't been made yet.

_**From: John Watson**_

_**To: **__**Sam Murray**_

_**7 o'clock tonight at The Horse and Hound.**_

_**See you there.**_

"John. I want my tea."

* * *

John arrived at The Horse and Hound a little earlier than seven but his reason was that at least he could shove a pint down his throat to calm him down before hand. He ordered a pint and sat in a table by the window.

He made patterns in the foamy head of his pint until someone plonked themselves down opposite him.

"God you look old." Sam Murray's smiling face greeted him. Sam looked exactly the same as John remembered him, same Ralph Lauren polo, same faded jeans and ridiculously spiked hair. His eyes shone with mischief making him look twenty years younger. John used to joke that Sam looked like that bloke that played _The Master_ in the new _Doctor Who_.

The two men were the roughly the same age, give or take a few years, Sam being the younger but they'd joined at the same time, John in the Medical Corps and Sam in the Royal Engineers but both men had been assigned to 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. They'd been friends ever since.

"Nice to see you too, Sam. How have you been?"

"Yeah not bad…you know…just glad to be back really."

"What you drinking?" John asked, already getting up and digging a fiver out of his pocket.

"Uh…it's alright, I'll have one later."

"You sure? Not like you to turn down a free pint."

"It'll still be your round later." Sam grinned. "So…yeah, how is your sister?"

"Well…she got married about a year and a half ago."

"Really? I never thought Harry would settle down. I always pinned you to be the family man."

"She didn't. They divorced six months after they got married."

"Ah…shit."

"Yeah, precisely." John laughed.

"Still a lesbian?" Sam asked with genuine hope in his eyes.

"You haven't got a snowflakes chance in hell, my friend."

"Ah well," he shrugged. "I've got Cathy."

"Oh yeah, when's the big day?"

"Just a couple of weeks away…twenty…seventh. Yeah, it's one of those little country churches in Cath's home town."

"Good man –"

"I think I'll take you up on that pint now." Sam interjected. "All this talking is making me thirsty." Sam winked.

John stood up and dug a fiver out of his pocket and went up to the bar. He ordered the same as he had. Half of him was outraged at the price alcohol had become and the other half of him (the medical man) was quite pleased since it would reduce Friday and Saturday A&E calls.

He plonked the pint in front of Sam and sat back opposite him. Sam took a sip of the pint and grimaced slightly.

"Newcastle Brown Ale. How did I know? You've got an acquired taste haven't you, John?"

John simply smiled.

"So…tell me more about this Sherlock Holmes bloke…is he treating you well?"

"Piss off." John said with a smile.

"Oh come on! With those cardigans you must be gay. I bet your grandma is ecstatic."

John was about to take a sip of his pint when Sam spoke and he snorted into it.

"Oh shit…" He laughed. "That's rich coming from the nineties throwback."

The two men spent the next ten minutes or so conversing and swapping insults/compliments and generally getting used to each others company. It had been a long time since they'd seen each other and they had to get back into the swing of their friendship.

It was around the half-way mark of their forth pint when Sam stopped laughing and looked almost sheepish. By that point John had become more than a little bit drunk and had lost all inhibitions about talking freely to Sam.

"Sam? Mate? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, grand. Um…I wanted to ask you something, John…it's a bit personal and all that…"

"Medically or as a friend?"

"Friend, don't worry, I do have my own doctor. No…I um…I wanted to ask you…I know we haven't seen each other in a while, but, we're still mates right? I mean like, close mates?"

"Well…uh…yeah…"

"Would you…would you be my best man?"

Whether it was the alcohol that had clouded his mind or just rash judgement, John stared at Sam and before he even comprehend what he was about to say he said;

"Yes."

The relief in Sam's face was a picture and John could swear he saw a tear form in one of Sam's eyes but he just convinced himself it was a trick of the light.

"Well," John said, feeling a genuine happiness that he hadn't felt in a long time. "Looks like we've got another reason to celebrate." John lifted up his pint. "Cheers."

Sam lifted up his pint and knocked it against John's. "Cheers."

* * *

John knew he was getting old when he woke up at God only knows what time in the morning and felt as if he head was about to explode. He knew the problems he developed in the morning after heavily outweighed the enjoyment of the previous night.

John was barely able to lift his head from the pillow without a bolt of agony shooting through his skull. There was no way in hell he could get up. Even if it did feel like he was going to piss his trousers…if he was wearing any.

Oh he couldn't give a shit. Maybe when he got up he'd remember what happened or what he talked about or even what he agreed to…perhaps. Just a couple more hours…

"John! Wake up! Now!" John heard Sherlock's voice somewhere in the distance but he was just too tired to care…

He was yanked out of bed, roughly. His legs failed him as he fell to the floor but was caught by two pairs of hands. His eyes watered at the brightness of the room. Blurred shapes moved around him and Holy Jesus his head _hurt_.

It was then John could just about make out a shape of a man he knew. Lestrade… What was Greg doing here? He could hear Sherlock somewhere beside, or was it behind him? Anyway he was around and he was _shouting. _Actually _shouting_.

Lestrade's face finally swam into view as his vision cleared, he looked as haggard as John felt but he looked…upset. Why would Lestrade look upset?

"John Hamish Watson, I am arresting you for the murder of Sam Murray."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John couldn't speak, he physically couldn't speak. He felt sick. The bile was rising in his throat, God he felt as if he was going to empty the contents of his stomach any second. There was so much noise – doors slamming, Sherlock shouting, Lestrade shouting, another man, (possibly Dimmock) shouting from behind the steel door. There was so much light, everything was so white. God it felt like his senses were being brutally abused all at once.

He curled his one arm around his stomach, as the other was handcuffed to the metal table in front of him. He knew he must have looked pitiful but he was just in too much pain to care. The door opened, even though the shouting – Sherlock's shouting continued.

Lestrade and Dimmock stepped through the door looking as worse for wear in days old crumpled suits. From the looks of them they hadn't washed, slept, changed or probably even eaten in a good few days.

Both men wore suits but they were stripped down to only the bare necessities; a white shirt, black trousers and office shoes. The only difference being, Dimmock wore a green striped tie loosely around his neck.

Lestrade didn't even look at him when he came in; in fact he all but shuffled through the door. He looked like a condemned man. Dimmock kept his head up and looked John in the eye but with a drawn expression.

None of them spoke; none of them greeted each other. There were no kind words or words of reassurance. Just cold, harsh silence. On the table was a tape recorder as well the CCTV camera positioned in the corner close to the ceiling.

In a hoarse voice Dimmock was the one who spoke;

"Interview commenced at nine-thirty a.m. DI Gregory Lestrade and DI James Dimmock present and conducting the interview. The suspect will state his name and date of birth."

"Doctor J-John Hamish W-Watson. Eighth of September nineteen-seventy-one."

"Doctor Watson. Tell me, how did you first meet Mr. Murray?"

"We-we were in the same regiment and we were friends ever since."

"What regiment is that?"

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, hold on, James you know all this why-"

"Please, Doctor Watson for the purpose of the interrogating you refer to both of us as Detective Inspector Dimmock and Detective Inspector Lestrade." Dimmock's tone was harsh but his eyes were pleading.

"Fine. _Detective Inspector Dimmock_ would you please, for the love of Christ, tell me what is going on?"

"Mr. Murray was found dead in the early hours of last night Doctor Watson. He was found outside the steps of his house, he choked on his own vomit."

"Then how –"

"He was poisoned, Doctor Watson. He was drugged and left to die on the steps of his house. You were the last person to see him alive, the barman confirmed that he saw you walk out with him and you hailed a cab that you shared. You finger prints are all over his body and as a doctor, would you or would you not know about different poisons and their effects on the body?"

"Well of course I bloody well would!" John shouted in disbelief. "Lestrade you can't believe that I killed Sam. We were mates. I wouldn't – I didn't."

John looked desperately at Greg-no, Detective InspectorLestrade, for the first time on entering the room, looked him the eyes.

"Just – just tell us what happened that night. Talk us through it, okay?" Lestrade looked at him with sombre eyes.

"Sam emailed me to ask if we could meet up. I said yes. So we went to the Horse and Hound. And we talked."

"About what?" Dimmock asked.

"T-things."

"Why are you being so vague, John?" Lestrade said beseechingly.

"Because I can't remember!" He shouted, frustrated with everything including himself.

Sam couldn't be dead. He was so…so alive yesterday. Why would anyone have wanted to hurt Sam? Sam was one of the bravest men he knew. Sam couldn't be dead…he just couldn't…

John ran a shaky hand through his damp hair.

He hadn't realised he was sweating until he felt beads of sweat run down the side of his face. He wasn't hot was he? He knew he was shaking; his entire body was shaking out of control.

Lestrade and Dimmock looked at each other with a grim expression but before anything else could be said Sherlock burst through the door. The Scotland Yard police officers acknowledged his presence by Dimmock rolling his eyes and Lestrade looking oddly relieved.

"I said seven minutes and know your time is up. Get out."

Lestrade left without protest but Dimmock looked torn between two worlds. He remained seated for all of eight seconds until Sherlock grabbed the lapels on his shirt and dragged him through the door, slamming it once he was in the corridor.

Dimmock banged on the door but gave up in seconds, Sherlock's piercing gaze never left John. He nodded towards the handcuffs.

"Are you alright?"

John smiled weakly. "Could've been better but there we go. Not every day I get arrested for murdering the man who saved my life."

Sherlock grimaced slightly, it was small movement but much more evident than it normally would've been. John opened and closed his mouth a few times but gave up and embraced the silence.

John kept his head down, not wanting to look into those blue eyes. He didn't want to see what was there because then he would see the truth. It would be real and he would have to accept it.

He heard the squeal of the chair as Sherlock sat down opposite him.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was the most reassuring thing in the world to him. "John…look at me."

John looked up. He felt his throat tighten when he saw the unreadable expression in Sherlock's face. There was nothing. No emotion whatsoever. Jesus Christ, John wanted to leap across the table and shake some emotion into him. How the hell could that bastard be so composed during a time like this?

With the calmest voice in the world he said: "Did you kill him, John?"

"No. Sherlock. I swear, I didn't –" John drew a shaky breath. "I didn't kill him."

"Are you sure?"

"What? What the hell do you mean 'Am I sure'? Of course I'm bloody well sure! For fuck's sake the man asked me to be his best man!"

"His best man?"

"Yes!"

Sherlock put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on top of his hands. "John…Sam's betrothed called off the wedding four months ago, just in the middle of his tour."

"W-what? No- he-he was nervous because he wanted to ask me-he asked me, to be his best man and I said yes. He said that he'd only just proposed and that they were marrying soon. Why…why would he lie?"

"You tell me, John."

"But-but I don't know." John stared dumbfounded at Sherlock and then it dawned on him. "You think I killed Sam."

Sherlock leant back in the chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well…the evidence does stack up against you."

"But…I'm not a killer!"

"Yes you are."

John stiffened; his eyes narrowed and he suddenly became very, very aware that it was Sherlock he was talking to. Friend or no, he was still a suspect.

"You've killed many men in your life, John. As a soldier you killed men and boys, willing and unwittingly. You killed a man on behalf of a man you knew for only a day along with various other criminals that came at the unfortunate end of your temper during some of our more dangerous situations. So yes, John, you are a killer."

John stared at Sherlock. He didn't – no, couldn't believe that Sherlock had just said that. The words slowly sunk in, each felt like a blow to the chest and each and every one burnt.

He felt hot tears run down his cheeks; once he started he simply couldn't stop. John felt something inside him wither and he just lowered his head and sobbed.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Issues of Trust and Loyalty**

Chapter 3

John wept, he didn't care that his best friend was standing in the room or that it was being recorded or that anyone could walk in and see him in such a pitiful state. He didn't notice that the iron door was opened and that the two Scotland Yard detectives came back in.

He didn't notice that Lestrade swore and that there were tears in his eyes and that Dimmock looked absolutely petrified. He barely registered the fact that two uniformed coppers dragged him up and down the corridor.

They stripped his of his belt and shoes and before rummaged through his pockets and finding nothing. Then, they shoved him into a small white cell and the blue steel door closed behind him.

John stumbled towards the concrete extension of the brick wall that acted a makeshift bed. He more collapsed onto it than sat, having just lost the use of his legs. He pulled himself in the foetal position and panted heavily.

It felt as if his lungs were straining against his chest, his head pounded furiously and he could feel the blood pumping desperately. His chest felt tight.

'_Oh dear God…it couldn't be…'_

John forced himself upwards and he tumbled to the floor. He tried to shout but the only thing that came out was a strangled gasp.

'_Please…please help me…'_

The edges of his vision clouded in darkness and he desperately dragged his fingernails against the floor.

'_Please God, let me live…'_

He could feel the blackness surround him, the blackness he'd first met in a bombed street in Helmand. It terrified him, frightened him beyond belief, wanting to scream for help at the top of his lungs but barely managing to breathe through his constricted chest.

'_I don't want to die…'_

Just as he felt the blackness consume him, the blue door opened, hoards of feet rushed around him. He felt strong hands wrap around him and just before he blacked out he saw the terrified face of his friend.

"John! John! Keep your eyes open, come on John, _look at me_!"

Then he was gone.

* * *

Cardiac arrest induced by myocardial infraction or to put it simply heart failure due to a heart attack; the cause of the heart attack was unknown. Sherlock performed CPR, not giving up and to everyone's relief it worked.

John was breathing but his heart was weak, very weak.

Sherlock watched as they bundled the doctor into the back of an ambulance, two uniformed police officers at his side. He'd followed the ambulance to the hospital with Lestrade and had growled threats at the Detective Inspector when he said that John had to be handcuffed to the bed for the sake of security.

He'd deduced the two Bobbies' sexual kinks to scare them away but that only got them as far as outside the door. Sherlock had refused to leave his friend's side. His best friend.

Something akin to guilt built inside him as he thought that if John were to die his last words would be what he said in the interrogation room. But he quelled that notion; it wouldn't do either of them any good.

He couldn't stop staring at John, _his _John. Unbreakable, reliable, ridiculously brave John…but he wasn't. He was shadow of what Sherlock knew; he was whiter shade of pale and looked like a man on the brink of death.

It was scary seeing John hooked up to multiple IV drips, an oxygen mask placed around his face and a heart monitor steadily beating away in the corner. Who was he kidding, it was bloody terrifying.

When Sherlock was sure that the Detective Inspector wasn't around, he reached for John's hand and held it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "I don't think you can hear me but if you can, just listen. I…I'm sorry about what I said before…I had to be sure you were telling the truth. But believe me when I say I never truly doubted you for one second. I'll find out who did this to you. I promise."

Sherlock placed John's hand gently back onto the sheet and stood up briskly. He exited the room just as Lestrade entered.

"Oi! Where are you off to?" Lestrade asked him.

"I have my own lines of enquiry to follow up, Lestrade. Since your way resulted in John having heart failure, I'm doing it my way."

Lestrade bristled at Sherlock's comment, he pressed his lips together tightly in anger. "Yeah well, your bloody interrogation didn't exactly make it easy on the poor sod, did it?" He snapped.

As soon as the Detective Inspector said it he regretted it. "I'm sorry but please…just don't talk to me like it's my fault. None of us knew he was going to do…this."

Sherlock nodded, he placed his hand on Lestrade elbow, which was as close to an apology as Lestrade knew he was going to get. Still, he appreciated the gesture.

"So, where are you off?"

"Homeless network. I told you, they are a lot quicker than you lot will ever be. I want to see if any of them saw John and Sam that night."

"Right, okay, good idea. You will keep me in the loop with this one Sherlock, won't you?"

The detective didn't move and Lestrade sighed.

"I mean it, Sherlock. Don't do that Rambo thing you do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, alright, fine. Now, I want someone with John all the time."

"The uniform lot are here –"

"No, not just them. I mean people he knows. _People I trust._ Call Molly and Mrs. Hudson and ask them to take shifts with you. Ask Dimmock as well. And I don't want anyone going in and out of John's room without being fully checked, Doctors, nurses the lot, understand?"

Lestrade nodded, taking a sip of the bloody awful café coffee in his hand. "You think someone's trying to kill John?"

"They're not trying to kill John, Lestrade. They've already attempted it. Once they find out that their attempt has been thwarted they'll redouble their efforts." Sherlock looked with a neutral expression at the man lying in the hospital bed.

But, Lestrade saw the sadness in the detective's eyes even if the man would deny it to the end.

"Why would anyone want to kill John?" Lestrade asked, genuinely trying to come up with any reason at all why someone would go to this extreme. He looked up at Sherlock, whose face remained blank but Lestrade could've sworn he saw a look of fear flash in his eyes. Then it dawned on him. "You don't think it's because of you, do you? But…Moriarty has been dead for years now."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead, he turned on his heel and marched out of the hospital with grim determination in his mind and revenge in his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

The Issues of Trust and Loyalty

**Chapter 4**

"What do you mean there was no one there?" Sherlock spat at the fifteen year old girl, Billie, for the umpteenth time. The dishevelled girl stood in front of Sherlock in the flat looking awkward and out of place.

She looked ridiculously tired; the black bags under her eyes stood dramatically out against her jaundice skin. She stank heavily of salt water and sewage. She was hunched in on herself, suggesting that she must have done some kind of damage to her shoulders last night whilst searching for the rogue Irregular.

Billie flinched slightly but stood her ground. "I'm sorry, Mr. 'Olmes but we don't know where Nicky went. He followed 'im to that pub…uh, the Horse and Hound was it? Yeah, but then he just disappeared. We haven't had sight or sound of him since."

A look of anguish crossed her face as she said it. However, the detective made himself unaware of Billie's turmoil and Sherlock leapt out of his chair and paced in front of her, frustrated with how quickly this was turning against him.

Normally Billie was so efficient, that's why he'd chosen her as the leader of the Irregulars but this lapse in standard was unacceptable and what made it worse was the fact that it was at just the wrong time. The most annoying thing about it was the fact that he knew it wasn't actually her fault.

"Why wasn't there someone else with him?" He snapped back harshly.

Billie drew herself up to her full height and stared hardly at him. "Because _sir_," She spat the word at him. "You told us it was low-risk and low-risk jobs don't need two to do 'em!"

"That was before I realised how incompetent you are!"

Billie drew back sharply. The look of hurt in her eyes made Sherlock begin regret what he said…but only slightly as there was still the burning frustration inside him.

He collapsed back into his chair and placed his fingers underneath his chin, trying to calm himself. Billie shifted uncomfortably, before saying in almost a whisper;

"D'you think Nicky's going to be alright? What if someone paid him off?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked on, almost sympathetically at Billie and he spoke in softer tones. "You lose people all the time don't you? From accidents or muggings or hypothermia. Shouldn't you be used to it by now?"

Billie looked up at him with disgust in her eyes. "You never get used to it, you know. It's not one of the things you can get used to." The anger rose in her voice. "He was only twelve and now he's probably dead because of you. Find someone else to do your work, Mr. Holmes, because I ain't going to do it any longer."

Billie knew her atrocious grammar got on Sherlock's nerves and kicked it up a notch to do precisely that. Billie spun on her heel but before she could leave, Sherlock grabbed her arm.

"There is, however, a chance that Nicky could still be alive. What's his full name? Nicolas…?" Sherlock spoke quickly.

"Wiggins. Nicolas Wiggins."

"Alright, well I suggest you continue to look for him. If Nicolas is alive then he may have some valuable information. Here." He stuffed ninety pound into her hands. "If you do find him and he's hurt, you know how to contact me."

Billie looked down at the money in her hands. She frowned.

"Cost of extra expenses," He elaborated. "This should cover it."

Billie smirked, forgetting her previous anger. "Is this your way of begging me not to go?"

She saw the twitch at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, which in his code was something akin to a smile. "You are indispensable, Billie. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Billie's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, which only embarrassed her more. "Um…thanks…I should, uh, probably go. I have to round up eveyone if we've got even the slightest chance of finding Nicky. Do…do you –"

"Do I honestly believe that Nicky could still be alive? We cannot eliminate the possibility, Billie. That's the most we can hope for at the minute."

Billie snorted. "_We? _Why would you hope? You didn't even know his name." She asked accusingly.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Nicolas Wiggins, small for his age – four foot five, dark blonde hair, green eyes, born in London, parents died some years back and he didn't take very well to being put in a foster home. There's a small scar, just above his left eyebrow, from where he fell up the steps in Paddington station. Oh, believe me, Billie…I know more about Nicolas Wiggins than you may think. Now, I would appreciate it if you left, mainly because I have to visit someone."

Billie blinked a couple of times before regaining control of her senses and quickly heading to the door. She stopped abruptly but without turning round she said;

"Before I go…I just wanted to warn you…if you're thinking of going to," She audibly gulped. "_him…_for information then he's not in a particularly good mood. Apparently one of his containers went down in the North Sea and he's not best pleased."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "I imagine he's not." He tilted his head and stared at her back. "How did you know I was going to go to him?"

"Everyone goes to Clay in the end, don't they?" She turned her head slightly. "Just…watch your back. He's getting more…_influential_…by the day. I heard a whisper last week that he disposed of an entire rival gang in Soho. And one day, if you're not looking over your shoulder, he'll dispose of you too."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but Billie shot down the stairs in an instant and moments later she stepped out into the alley behind 221B, soon disappearing through the maze of roads.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the armrest for a few moments; it was curious to note how Billie knew what he was going to do – or in particular, who he was going to go to next. Perhaps he'd trained her a little too well or perhaps he had underestimated her skill, either way, it was interesting to note Clay's rise in the criminal ranks.

He smiled crookedly at the skull on top of the mantelpiece. "How would you like to visit an old friend?"


	5. Chapter 5

The Issues of Trust and Loyalty

**Chapter 5**

He knew he was close to the entrance as soon as he smelt the burning petrol and cannabis. Some things never did change in the criminal underworld.

Sherlock had heard of Clay before, well, technically he had actually met John Clay. But that was a long time ago, when Sherlock was still in university and Clay offered less than legal recreational drugs at a relatively good price. Sherlock had discarded the pathetic leering weasel as soon as he'd met him; it had taken a good few hours of rummaging to actually pull up the right memories.

What was interesting about Clay was the fact that this upper-class, Eton educated, Oxbridge graduate had not only climbed ranks in the criminal underworld, a place where if anything he should've been completely out of his depths. But he'd clung onto his position with tooth and claw for some considerable time.

Sherlock had heard rumours, whispers, that Clay was brutal to his rivals and went as far as to kidnap Vincent Spalding, his old comrade in crime and had his men to shoot him in the back of the kneecaps, rendering him completely disabled before flying him up in a helicopter at his disposal and dangle him out of the helicopter blindfolded to annihilate any will the man had left.

Dimmock had been the officer in charge of Spalding's suicide report a few months ago. Sherlock had briefly glanced at it, seeing now real interest or mystery in the man's cause of death. But it was weeks later that he had heard the interesting tale behind it. That was when he had decided Mr. John Clay was worthy of some of Sherlock's attention or at least the eyes of his Irregulars.

Sherlock trudged through the mud, towards the entrance to the tramway. He pulled the collar of his coat up and stuffed his hands into his pockets whilst mentally slipping into the persona of a nervous middle class undergraduate.

Just as he neared the entrance a burly 6ft man emerged from the shadows and grabbed hold of his collar and yanked him upwards. Sherlock did a quick mental assessment of the man, having fully expected some kind of guard to be on duty.

_Boxer_

_Last fight 3 days ago – scars still haven't healed_

_Several gold teeth – shows success_

_Greek origin_

_Around 18 stone_

_Age between 35-37_

_Natural brunette_

_Had knuckles broken six-no, seven times_

That was about as much as he could tell in the darkness around him. Then the boxer spoke,

"What you want?"

"I-I-I heard about you, um, no, this place – and, and I want, well I would quite like to buy some…uh…substances. If you understand what I'm saying?" He stuttered nervously.

"No. I don't." The man hissed in a thick Cockney accent.

He pulled Sherlock up, by the collar, and slammed him into a fence, he vaguely he knew was there. In the spirit of his character, Sherlock whimpered loudly.

"_Drugs! Please! I want drugs!"_ He shouted shrilly. "And, and I can pay for them too! Look!" He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes he'd collected earlier.

The boxer's sadistic grin widened and he snatched the money out of Sherlock's hand and took a noticeable chunk out of the wad.

"Entrance fee. Now piss off before I change my mind." The boxer let go of Sherlock, who was on tip toes and dropped to the floor when he did. Sherlock scrambled through the gates, thanking the man a pathetic amount of times.

He practically ran through the tunnels until the smell of burning petrol became unbearable. The smoke drifted around the tunnel and almost caused him to retch from the stench of it. But he pressed forward, wiping away the sweat that was quickly forming on his brow.

He emerged and saw a portacabin with barrels of petrol burning next to it. Knowing that his 'idiot undergrad' wouldn't work anymore so he straightened the lapels of his coat and sauntered to the portacabin, knocking the door politely.

"Come in!" A voice he vaguely recognised, commanded.

Sherlock did as he was told, stepping into the portacabin, which was surprisingly well kitted out and warm. A large oak desk was situated in the middle of the portacabin and John Clay was sat in a high dark high back chair. Clay looked up from his writing and his face momentarily softened into surprise.

"Well, of all of the people I expected to walk through that door. I didn't expect it to be you. Welcome to my humble abode."

"Humble. Indeed. I imagine you are hardly used to this…_luxury_."

Sherlock said as he glanced at the white walls which were still clean, the structure was a new model and going from the damp and slightly discolouring, had only been in the tunnels for about a week or so.

"Oh, believe me Mr. Holmes, the irony is not lost on me but alas even the greatest from start from the bottom, if one wants to gain what one wants to achieve. Please, sit." Clay's long fingers gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment but considering the fact that he and Clay were on relatively good terms he decided it would be best to be polite and complied with Clay's request.

"Now, what can I do for you Mr. Holmes? I wonder what I could give you."

"Information. I want information."

"Oh? In exchange for what?" Clay grinned, showing far too many teeth.

"Your empire." Sherlock replied humourlessly. "You have seen what I have done James Moriarty's web. You honestly think I would have to exert myself in order to stop you? I advice you to be very careful now, Mr. Clay, because what you say now will probably determine the future of your…interesting…career choice."

Clay regarded the man in front of him with wariness but there was no denying the respect and even admiration in criminal's eyes.

"You are very brave to stroll into the lion's den and threaten to snatch away his meat. In a few moments I will decide whether it is indeed bravery or stupidity," Clay leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk and with a twinkle of fascination in his eyes said; "What would you do if called my men and had you shot right here? Or, more interestingly how would you persuade me otherwise?"

Sherlock had waited patiently for this moment and did everything to suppress a smirk so as not to ruin the moment.

"How long do you believe you would survive, Mr. Clay, if you were to kill me? I not only have the entire metropolitan police force at my beck and call but the free press as well. So, not only will all you have ever worked for be taken apart, piece by piece but you will be there to witness it all as you will be publically disgraced not only by the British but the world media. I wonder what your father would say to that?"

During Sherlock's speech, Clay grew tense in his chair as he realised the weight of what the detective said. And at the mention of his father, it became almost painfully clear that Sherlock hit a nerve.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and spoke again, "So, with that knowledge in mind, I ask you, which would you rather give up? A few pieces of information or…_this_." Sherlock gestured around him.

Clay regarded Holmes carefully for a long while, visibly weighing up his options.

"This information…" Clay finally said, his Oxbridge drawl becoming more prominent. "Would it impede me or my business in any way?"

"None at all." Sherlock assured him.

Clay shrugged, supposedly to himself, and leaned back in his chair. "Very well, what information do you desire?"

"Rumours. Whispers. Besides yourself has anyone else made a noticeable rise in your world?"

"Apart from me? No." Clay smirked. "I personally saw to that."

"Has anyone made it clear they want to hur-" Sherlock stopped himself before he was about to say 'hurt John'. He decided to choose his words carefully. "Cause me some considerable damage?"

"Apart from everyone you've ever encountered, including clients I'm told."

"Has anyone made obvious…_arrangements_ to do so?" He snapped, quickly growing more and more annoyed with Clay and with the lack of information by the second.

"I've heard nothing." Clay replied honestly. "And, if they were, I would've heard of it."

"Then –" Sherlock began but Clay cut him off.

"You want the truth, Mr. Holmes?" He leaned forward once more and stared at Sherlock unnervingly. "After your dealing with a certain Mr. Moriarty all the rats have scampered back into the shadows from whence they came with his slimy tails between their legs. Your reputation is almost as more widespread than your ego. So no. No one I have heard of from either rumours or whispers have decided to enact vengeance against you. Now, if you are referring to a certain incident I think you are trying to desperately to avoid mentioning –" Clay swallowed his words when he saw a dangerous, primal anger cross the other man's features.

"Well then when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock cocked his head, a wicked, dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Have you made any preparations, Mr. Clay?"

"Oh believe me," Clay replied sullenly, "I would not be that foolish. Signing my own death certificate would pale in comparison to trying to pull an attempt on the good Doctor's life. No," He assured Sherlock. "I certainly would not do such a thing."

Sherlock rose swiftly, throwing the wad of notes down onto the desk in front of Clay. "Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Clay. You will not hear from me for some time."

Sherlock spun on his heels and strolled towards the door, hearing a faint mumble of something along the lines of 'Hallel-fucking-ujah' behind him. But before he reached the door, a throaty chuckle vibrated off the walls of the cabin. Sherlock twisted around, curious to see what he had missed about Clay.

"Mr. Holmes…" Clay said with the same fondness normally reserved for a young child. "You didn't think I could or would let you simply walk out of here without even attempting to seriously injure you? I have a reputation to uphold."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, seeing the dilemma of the man in front of him. "Very well," He said, knowing that on no uncertain terms he was agreeing to almost imminent death, if not serious disfigurement. "For the sake of curiosity, how would you go about with this 'attempt' as you call it?"

An insufferable smirk returned to Clay's face. "You haven't met by boys have you, Mr. Holmes? Well, I take great pleasure in introducing you to Jabez and Wilson."

Just as Clay finished, the cabin door swung open and the boxer entered with two very large, very angry, very ferocious snarling Rottweilers on the end of a, thankfully, sturdy looking chain lead.

Sherlock only realised he was unconsciously moving backwards when his crease of his leg hit the edge of Clay's desk. Apparently Clay had risen as well, because a hand baring a sovereign ring was placed on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I thought I should clarify, Jabez is the one wearing the red collar and Wilson has the ginger fur."

"I see." Sherlock replied, and he did, especially since Jabez and Wilson were edging closer by the second. "And the viable escape route is…?"

"Behind me is another entrance or in your case your 'viable escape route'. It leads back out to tunnel. It's a fair run but I'm sure a healthy man such as yourself can manage it with a good lead."

"And how much of a lead are you doing to give me?"

Clay paused for a moment before answering. "Twenty seconds."

"Thirty, at least." Sherlock replied, slightly outraged.

"You'll run faster if it's twenty. Much more fun to watch."

"Twenty-seven." Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the hounds of hell in front of him.

"Twenty-one." The amusement in Clay's voice was unmissable.

"Twenty-six." Sherlock spat, jumping back as one of the dogs, Jabez, made a leap towards him but got pulled back by the chain and seemed not best pleased about it.

"Oh, alright, I'm feeling lenient."

"I presume there will be a fence at the end of the tunnel?" Sherlock said, trying to probe as much information out of his as possible so he could make the correct calculations on how much energy to use and what speed would be best to begin with to keep a steady lead ahead of the dogs.

Whilst his mind worked furiously away his body moved around Clay's desk and towards the door.

"Of course." Clay answered, holding the door open for Sherlock. "Now, enough chat. Mr. Holmes, I suggest you run."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice.

He burst through the open door, nearly tripping at the unexpected drop from the portacabin to the ground. Ground which held boggy water that rose up to his ankles. He gritted his teeth as he felt his socks fill up with the disgusting water.

He pushed on, further spurred on by the fact that he could now here the boxer stand in the doorway and struggle to keep hold of Jabez and Wilson. He calculated the seconds as he ran, deciding to conserve some of his energy for when the dogs were lose.

As he had suspected, there was fence at the end of the tunnel, no barbed wire, but a good twelve foot tall. No problem if he was in any other situation but with two baying monsters at his heels, he knew fence would present itself as a bit of a problem.

Speaking of dogs…

_10…_

_9…_

_8…_

_7…_

_6…_

_5…_

_4…_

A sudden bark, a cry of surprise and the clang of metal on stone was heard behind him.

Sherlock swore colourfully under his breath at the boxer's inability to hold onto the dogs. The idiot's stupid blunder cost him three seconds. Three seconds in which could potentially determine whether he made it to relative safety or got torn to shreds by two mongrel dogs.

Sherlock picked up his speed, more than he would have liked but it was necessary. The cold wind rushed against his ears but unfortunately that didn't stop him hearing Jabez and Wilson cover ground at an alarming speed.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, a distinctly primal feeling but one that he was grateful for none the less as it pushed him on.

The fence loomed towards him, only a matter of seconds before he would reach it…but the feral barks and rapid footsteps of the dogs were only seconds behind him…

He jumped.

Pinning his newfound stamina down to the shots of adrenaline, he jumped and scrambled desperately upwards and hauled himself ungracefully over the top, nearly falling head first onto the ground below.

Jabez and Wilson reached the fence just as he pulled his feet over, their teeth ripped viciously at the fence. Their beady black eyes showed nothing but hatred and fury at being denied their prey.

Sherlock doubled over, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath back. He then placed his hands on the small of his back before addressing the two dogs.

"Well, you two certainly kept me on my toes. I thank you gentlemen, it was a refreshing run. Goodnight, Mr. Jabez, Mr. Wilson."

With a condescending smirk on his face, he pulled two dog biscuits from the inside pocket of his coat and threw one at each, who accepted the temporary peace offering quite happily.

Sherlock huffed slightly before walking slowly down the alley that the tunnel led out to. He emerged a few minutes later in an area of Hackney he recognised. Before hailing a taxi he pulled his phone out, sending a quick message to Billie.

**No luck. Any news on Wiggins?**

**SH**

Then, decided that a last resort was in order. As much as it pained him, and it really, _really _did, he knew he needed help and from one man in particular. If it was John as stake he would continued to dig around in the underworld, even wait for a good few months to see if anything happened again but it was John and Sherlock wasn't about to let a family feud be the ultimate thing that led to John's death.

He typed a certain set of numbers that only a handful of people (if that) in the world knew and hailed a cab with his other hand as the phone was answered almost immediately.

"Good evening, brother mine. Whatever you're doing at the minute, I need you to cancel it. I…I need your help. It's about John…"


End file.
